


sometimes fate guides us away

by Asterin



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, F/M, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Wistful, they're all a little sad in their own ways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asterin/pseuds/Asterin
Summary: Sometimes Arthur wishes he hadn't married Guinevere.Not all the time.But sometimes.Arthur, Merlin, Guinevere, Gwaine - they all have set roles in each other's lives. Sometimes they can't help but wish things were different.





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes Arthur wishes he hadn't married Guinevere.

Not all the time.

But sometimes.

That's not to say he doesn't love her - no, he loves her so much. He wouldn't have spent all this time with her if he hadn't, wouldn't have proposed in the first place if he hadn't been sure of his feelings.

Hell, when he banished her after what happened with Lancelot, he had felt his heart shatter.

Of course he loves her.

It's just-

In the time he spent without her, the gaps in their timeline to marriage and love and happiness – because they _are_ happy – he had seen the possibility of something else. Even in the before-and-after of Princess Mithian, in between his heartbreak and his decision to take Gwen back... Every time he lost her, every time he had to face the possibility of a world without her by his side, he realised that had things gone a little differently, she might never have been there at all.

And sometimes, he thinks it might have been better.

And he hates himself for it, because he knows exactly why.

Merlin.

Merlin was there first. Merlin, with his sharp voice and crooked grin and insufferable optimism, the way he had held Arthur up all those times and made him believe in the king he would become.

He couldn't pinpoint when annoyance had blurred into affection had blurred into... love.

Because it was love.

Not that he could ever say a word about it. Not before, and certainly not now.

Before he was a married man, before he was even king, he and Merlin had danced the line between friends and the dangerous slippery-slope of something _more_ far too often. He had almost confessed, more times than he could count, and caught himself just in time, changing the words balanced on his tongue to “you're an idiot” or something along those lines.The words were different each time but the meaning was the same, and sometimes, he dared to believe that Merlin said it back, dared to believe that his “you're a prat, and a royal one” held the same meaning as Arthur's “don't be stupid”.  


Even now, Arthur feels the undercurrent of their interactions and wonders if maybe Merlin feels it too. If maybe, once upon a time, they could have been something.

 

At the edge of his vision, he watches Merlin shaking out tomorrow's shirt, folding it, putting it away. He realises, a second too late, that he's been tapping his fingers on the desk for minutes now, staring unseeing at the document before him.

“Something bothering you, sire?” Merlin asks, and there's genuine concern in his voice. Arthur doesn't dare raise his head for fear that Merlin will see straight through him.

“Nothing, Merlin, I'm fine,” he says.

Merlin hovers for a moment longer, his weight shifting towards Arthur's desk like he's considering stepping closer. He doesn't press the subject, though. Instead, he asks, “Is there anything else...?”

Arthur waves a hand, dismissive. His heart wants Merlin to stay but his head knows better. “No, Merlin, you can go.” There's a pause as he exhales. “Thank you.”

There are many ways to say you love someone.

Merlin hesitates. “Good night, Arthur.”

And then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Arthur rests his head on his arms and wishes things were different.

It's too easy for him to picture himself  in the morning, waking beside Merli n. Too easy to picture Merlin , halfway through polishing Arthur's armour before catching himself , grinning when he remembers he doesn't have to. Merlin, eyes twinkling as they dine together, finally complete and utter equals. Merlin, speaking at the Round Table and Arthur listening to every word, taking careful note of  every piece of advice . He'll still call Merlin an idiot, just out of habit, but in this  perfect , make-believe future, he says it with a smile, and Merlin doesn't believe it for an instant. 

 

Sometimes Arthur wishes he hadn't married Guinevere.

Not  all the time .

But too  often .


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes Merlin wishes fate had carved him a different path.

Not entirely different.

Just a little.

He wouldn't say he's _unhappy_ with his destiny. He contented himself to being nothing but a manservant years ago – being Arthur's _friend_ is more than he could have dreamed of. It's because of this that he stays, keeps his secret, protects the king. Destiny is destiny, and if he's destined to remain on the sidelines, in Arthur's life but not in his heart, so be it.

Besides, it would be a bit much to ask – Emrys, the last dragonlord, the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth _and_ the love of King Arthur's life – but he can't help but want it. Magic or not, he is only human, after all.

And he loves Arthur.

He knows, without a shadow of doubt, that he will _always_ love Arthur.

He's loved others, too, of course. Freya. Lancelot. Gwaine. His love for them is akin to the bright heat of a campfire; steady and undeniably comforting, but nothing compared to the all-consuming golden light of the sun. It's just destiny. He and Arthur's lives were always meant to be tangled.

Merlin wonders sometimes, late at night, if the universe had intended for him to fall so undeniably hard, or if that had been all him. He likes to think it's fate, because that way he has something to blame besides himself. Even with all his magic, there's nothing he can do to stop his skin tingling under Arthur's touch, to stop warmth spreading through his core every time Arthur turns to him with affection in his eyes.

Because Merlin's not blind.

He knows affection when he sees it, knows love, and he knows that Arthur loves him. It's just a different kind of love, that's all.

Besides, even if Arthur felt the same way, it wasn't as if Camelot could have two kings. The people might respect Arthur enough to accept it, but a king needs an heir, and that's something Merlin could never provide.

And he's okay with that, most of the time.

So what if he can't bask in the sunlight? He has a campfire to keep him warm, and its light keeps the shadows away.

 

Gwaine is waiting for him outside the tavern. He looks up as Merlin rounds the corner, a jovial tilt to his lips, his hair faintly mussed, and Merlin knows he's likely on his second tankard of mead.

Not that it matters, with Gwaine's alcohol tolerance. Merlin has seen him down the better part of a barrel and still swing a sword with devastating accuracy.

“And how is our king?” Gwaine asks by way of greeting.

Merlin doesn't want to talk about Arthur. “Same as ever,” he laughs. “Still a prat.”

Something sad appears in Gwaine's eyes and Merlin can't work out what he said wrong.

He doesn't get long to think it over, because Gwaine says, “Glad to hear it,” and then his fingers are in Merlin's hair and the stone of the tavern wall is pressing into his back. He shuts his eyes.

It's unfair, Merlin knows, but as his lips meets Gwaine's, he can't help but wonder, just for a moment, what Arthur's would feel like. He banishes those thoughts to a dark corner of his mind, sighs into the kiss, and loses himself in the second-hand taste of mead.

 

Sometimes Merlin wishes fate had carved him a different path.

Not entirely different.

Just a little brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took time out their day to read this! The last two chapters will be done very soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes Gwaine  wishes he could make Merlin happy.

Merlin fakes it well.

Gwaine knows better.

He loves Merlin more than he ever thought possible for someone like him.

Before Merlin, his life had been a constant cycle of getting drunk and waking hungover, starting trouble and waking bruised, finding someone to warm his bed of a night and waking alone. It had been _fun,_ he supposed, living on the edge, always one wrong drink away from disaster – until Merlin showed up and made it all seem insignificant. When he tried to return to old habits, after Uther forced him to leave Camelot, he found that the once-sweet alcohol on the lips of his brief companions had him waking with the sour taste of copper on his tongue.

Every chance he was given to return, he took. For Arthur, the only decent noble he had ever met, for Camelot, the strange way it drew him in...

And for Merlin.

Always Merlin.

“ _You're the only friend I've got,”_ he had told Merlin once. Shared experiences made it easy;  an missing father, a youth served lukewarm by a mother who tried her best.

And while it isn't so true anymore that Merlin's his only friend, now that he has the knights, Merlin is still the first, still the most true. Also the prettiest, but Gwaine supposes that isn't really relevant.

It had been on a night like this, his head heavy from drinking, the air cool and smelling of smoke, that Merlin had first kissed him.

He had been surprised. Confused. Almost disbelieving, at first. _Merlin_ , choosing _him_.

Not that he hadn't wished for it many times before. Not that he hadn't dreamt of it.

The moment Merlin had first smiled at him, the moment he had seen the light shining in those blue eyes, Gwaine had been done for. Broken. No stranger in a tavern would ever again be enough.

He gave one night of his life to each of those men and women. Should Merlin ask him for the rest, Gwaine would give it to him without hesitation because he can't see himself wanting anyone else, not anymore.

But they were friends first, and he knows Merlin too well to believe that it's the same for him.

He may love Merlin, and Merlin may love him back, but Merlin isn't happy.

Gwaine will always be second best.

He tries not to be bitter. It's not his fault, not Merlin's. Gods, it's not even bloody Arthur's fault.

It breaks his heart, though, when he sees the tenderness with which Merlin looks at Arthur - not like he hung the stars; like he _is_ the stars. Worse, he sees the same thing mirrored on Arthur's face, even as he stands beside his wife.

They're made for each other, two sides of the same coin, cursed to remain close but never close enough.

 

Gwaine leaves the tavern alone.

Merlin wanted to stay with him, he knows, but he can't let him. Not tonight.

Sometimes he needs a little time to think of himself.

Come morning, he'll be back to normal, and his relationship with Merlin will continue the same as always. If second best is all he can get, he'll take it. It's better to see Merlin unhappy with him than miserable alone. He wouldn't ever dream of leaving.

The streets are cold and Gwaine's shirt is thin. He doesn't want to go back to the noise of the tavern, or to the emptiness of his bed just yet, but already he can feel goosebumps on his arms, a heavy ache in his chest. His footsteps lead him back towards the castle, and he lets them. Maybe by the time he reaches the tower stairs, tonight's reluctance will be gone, and he can catch Merlin before he goes to bed.

Maybe not.

The queen passes him in the corridor, and he bows to greet her. “Good evening, my lady,” he says.

“Good evening, Gwaine.” She smiles at him, looking very regal indeed, and then she's gone.

Gwaine wonders if Gwen knows how Merlin and Arthur feel, wonders if she feels second best, just as he does. Maybe he should have tried harder, back in his early days in Camelot. Maybe he could have changed their paths, and they could have grown to love each other. Maybe instead of Guinevere, it would be Merlin at Arthur's side.

Maybe Merlin would be happy.

S ometimes Gwaine wishes-

Gods, who's he kidding?

All the time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go. Thanks again to anyone who read this - it means a lot, and I really hope you're enjoying it.


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes Guinevere wishes she had chosen Lancelot.

Not because she is unhappy.

Because Arthur is.

For so many years, Arthur had been someone she could never have, someone to be admired from afar. Once, she had felt she could accept that. Arthur was _Arthur_ , and Lancelot had been there, and she had loved him, and she had been allowed to _have_ him. There had been something special between them, she knows. Even if she had remained a serving girl, even if her current life had remained an unattainable dream, she could have found happiness.

She and Lancelot could have built a beautiful life together, but for just one thing.

Arthur.

There had always been Arthur.

Burying feelings for him had been easy enough until suddenly they were burying _her._ She had cared for Lancelot too much to lead him on after that. He had understood, hadn't wanted to get between her and Arthur. That had been his choice, and Gwen had known in her heart that it had been for the best. By the time it happened, she had already belonged to Arthur.

And now Lancelot is dead.

She had loved Arthur enough to ask Lancelot to look after him, and Lancelot had loved her enough to carry that burden to his end. There were no words for the kind of grief that followed, to not only have lost a friend but to claim responsibility. She had watched the flames at his funeral and had felt the weight of it. _I did that_.

The guilt rests heavy on her shoulders when she sits beside Arthur at the Round Table as his wife, as his queen, and sees Merlin still standing. There's a quiet kind of sadness in his eyes, and she remembers, every time, that she had already taken Arthur from him. Now she has taken Lancelot as well.

She consoles herself with the thought that at least Merlin has Gwaine, and she and Arthur have each other, and they can find happiness in that.

Except they can't. Merlin can't. Arthur can't.

He loves her, she knows, but there's something in the way he and Merlin look at each other when they think no one can see that tells her she will never be enough.

 

Arthur's lips are soft as he kisses her goodnight, candlelight dancing in his eyes. His arm is warm across her torso, and her head slots in perfectly under his chin. Nights like this, it gets hard to breathe. There's something dreamlike about it all, and with sleep's impatient fingers tugging at her, it's too easy to fall into another world, where things had gone differently. This is everything she wanted, she reminds herself, but she knows it isn't right.

Her fingers toy absently with the golden hair just above Arthur's ear, her lips curving into a gentle smile that's oh so untrue. She hopes he won't notice.

He knows her too well.

“Guinevere.” His voice is soft in the darkness. “Is everything all right?”

She fights back tears with sheer force of will. “Yes, of course.”

 _With all my heart_ , she had told Arthur when he proposed, and gods, she had meant it, and she loves him so, so much, but he isn't happy and-

For Lancelot, she had been enough.

And if she had just been satisfied with what she had, hadn't tried so hard to grasp a _daydream_ , maybe Lancelot would have lived. Maybe Arthur and Merlin would have found their way together.

Maybe someone would love Gwaine as much as he loved them.

Sometimes Guinevere wishes she had chosen Lancelot.

Not because she loved him more.

Because it would be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished!! (exams couldn't stop me) Thanks so much to everyone who's read this! <3


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